The Sheriff's Proposal

“Logan!”

“He’s never said it, but he thinks his mother’s accident was my fault. And I’m not so sure it wasn’t. We had a serious argument. Travis came home just as she raced out of the house. An hour later, she was dead.”

Meg didn’t know what to say to ease Logan’s pain and guilt. “Have you talked to him about it?”

“Since that night, he’s pulled away. Now I’m not sure all the talking in the world will help.”

Meg could feel Logan’s torment. He wanted to love his son, but he thought his son no longer loved him. Meg knew what it felt like not to have love returned. Love was more than saying words. It was a bond that transcended arguments and misunderstandings.

But not abandonment.

As long as Logan kept trying to communicate with his son, trying to reach him, that bond would live. Somehow she had to explain that to Logan. “I didn’t know how to talk to my parents. They were so far above me.”

He glanced at her. “What do you mean?”

“Their concerns were lofty. They cared about the history of civilization and their research, not about what I’d learned about basket weaving from a native girl my own age, or about the friendship we developed. They met my physical needs—they made sure I was safe. But a child needs more than that.”

“I couldn’t even keep Travis safe.”

Meg could imagine the feelings of responsibility as a parent—the immensity of protecting a child, guiding him on the right path. “Maybe if you talk to him about why he ran away…”

“If I know Travis, he won’t be in a talking mood.”

“There’s always tomorrow.”

“If I can chain him down,” Logan muttered.

A few minutes later, he switched on the CD player, and classical music filled the car. But as they drove closer to Richmond, the tension increased. Meg wanted to reassure Logan in some way, but didn’t know how. She was much too aware of his foot going from the brake to the accelerator, his large hands on the steering wheel, the curling black hair on his forearm and wrist, his tan skin. He drew her gaze again and again. Whenever she peeked at his profile, her stomach fluttered. His rich black hair was cut close to the nape. The lines around his eyes hinted at his forty years, but his strong cheekbones and his determined jaw gave his face vitality and power that wouldn’t diminish with age.

He’d shaved when he’d showered. Meg could smell spice, not strong, just part of his scent. Yes, she was too aware of everything about Logan MacDonald. She had been since the first moment she’d felt his presence in her aunt and uncle’s barn.

Logan followed signs to the hospital in Richmond. After he parked, he came around to the passenger side and opened Meg’s door. She stepped out, and he gave her a wry smile.

They entered the hospital, and Logan halted in the lobby. “The doctor gave me Travis’s room number. Would you like to wait here?”

Meg preferred activity to inactivity. “I’d rather come along if you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind. But I don’t know what Travis’s attitude will be.”

She smiled, hoping to ease Logan’s tension. “I’m not afraid of sticky situations. I get involved in them often.”

He smiled back. “I guess you do. I keep forgetting you’re a professional woman who’s been around the world a few times.”

“Forget?”

His gaze caressed her face. She could feel it and knew he wanted to touch her. “When I’m with you, I only think about the here and now.”

She knew what he meant. It was scary. With Logan, she felt different. Yesterday and tomorrow seemed far away. The feeling wasn’t only scary; it was also dangerous.

If she turned the conversation back to Travis, she could ignore the tugging she felt toward Logan. “What floor is Travis on?”

Logan’s eyes remained the same deep green. He knew exactly what she was doing. “Five.” When he broke eye contact and nodded toward the elevators, she walked ahead of him, knowing if he touched her, the tugging would become stronger.

They found Travis’s room easily. Logan paused outside the door, his jaw set, his forehead creased with concern. Then he strode in, as if he belonged in the hospital, as if he belonged in his son’s room.

Travis was dressed, sitting in a chair by the window flipping through a magazine. The sleeve of his shirt sported a long tear, and the denim of his jeans hung in strips over his knees. His school jacket lay across the back of the chair. The right side of his face was swollen, and his right eye was as black and blue as it could be. Meg saw Logan take a deep breath and realized how difficult it was for him to see his son in this condition.

The teenager looked up when he heard footsteps. Meg glimpsed fear in his eyes, relief and, an instant later, defiance.

Logan stood before his son. “How are you?”

“Just fine, Dad. Can’t you tell?”

Logan frowned. “I can tell you’ve gotten yourself into a mess of trouble. Are you ready to come home?”

Travis grunted. “I don’t have any choice.” He looked over at Meg. “Who’s she?”

“This is Meg Dawson.”

Coming closer to Travis, Meg extended her hand. “Hi.”

Travis scowled at his father. “Seems like you’ve been busy while I’ve been gone.”

“Travis…” The anger in Logan’s tone was evident.

Meg dropped her hand. “Have you been busy, Travis?”

The sixteen-year-old looked at her curiously, then dropped his gaze. “Yeah. I sure have. Enough to know I want to be on my own.”

“That’s impossible until you’re eighteen,” Logan snapped. “You don’t even have a job.”

“Maybe I’ll get one. Maybe as soon as I get some money, I’ll leave again.”

Logan looked as if he wanted to shake some sense into his son. “You try it, and I’ll be more of a warden than I’ve ever been.”

“You mean you’ll lock me in my room? You might as well.”

Meg saw the distress Logan was trying to hide. She saw him try to make himself relax, and she knew his next words were a real effort. “Do you know how worried I’ve been?”

Travis’s expression didn’t change, and he didn’t respond. Instead, he said, “You have to sign release forms out at the desk before we can go.”

Logan tried to hide his pain. “All right. I won’t be long.”

Travis watched Logan leave, closed the magazine and stared out the window.

“I only met your dad a short time ago, Travis, but I know he has been worried.”

The teenager looked at her then, as if assessing her. Meg let him study her. Finally he asked, “So how did you meet Dad? Did he stop you for speeding or something?”